


A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou

by illumynare



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Coffee, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even while preparing to kill the Son of Oryx, Guardians can always find an excuse for a picnic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou

The excuse is that they are monitoring the movements of Hive on Earth for a better understanding of the patterns they may follow beneath the surface of the Moon.

The reality is that the hypothetical Wizard never appeared, and even Toland has long since grown bored with the slow, lumbering circles of the two Knights on the other side of the chasm. That even Eris feels safe enough to shuck her helmet and eat some field rations.

Now Toland is occupied with dissecting her braid, his pale fingers gently pulling apart the long dark auburn strands. Eris has stolen his journal and she turns the pages slowly, frowning at the the cramped writing, mouthing to herself the words of conjectured evocations.

"You wouldn't understand it, Hunter, even if you could pronounce the words," he says.

She licks her lips and enunciates three words, soft but clear.

For a moment the air has a thick, grainy quality. There's a sense of watchfulness, of magnification from above that rests heavily on them. And then it passes.

Toland's hands, pressed against her scalp, have gone still. Her Ghost whirls up into the air, chittering in alarm. But the late afternoon sunlight is warm against the nape of her neck, and Eris smiles.

* * *

The excuse is—

Well, the reality is that Omar has never needed excuses.

But the reason that they're on the southern edge of the European Dead Zone is reports of Fallen raiders. They've been riding their sparrows all morning and found nothing. Now the sun is high overhead, blazing hot, and they've paused in a grove of orange trees. Eris has started her Ghost scanning again when Omar, quite suddenly and without any provocation, climbs the nearest tree.

"What is it?" Eris calls anxiously after him, because there's nothing her Ghost can sense, but she remembers the Mare Imbrium, how swiftly countless Guardians turned to ash and dust and bone—

"Lunch," says Omar. "Catch."

An orange bounces off her helmet.

Eris sighs loudly. "We're on a mission," she says. The Light can sustain them for days without food.

"And it's time for lunch," says Omar, pulling off his helmet. He shakes his head, squinting at the sunlight, then starts peeling an orange.

Eris thinks of fire and screams and the cold dust of the Moon. But here is warm air, and sunlight glowing through the leaves of the trees. She pops the seals on her helmet.

Something almost like a memory stirs, when the sunlight touches her face: a sense that her pale, freckled skin should blister red and start peeling beneath the harsh sun. But the Light that summoned her back from death—that has summoned her a hundred times over—heals her in every moment.

Her Ghost swirls beside her, and is not afraid.

Eris lifts the orange off the ground, and peels back the skin.

* * *

The reality is Crota. 

That vast, malignant shadow, looming with casual disdain over the futile ranks of Guardians. He made them all seem like shadows before him, undone by his luminous darkness.

The reality is: Eris Morn and Eriana-3 are going to kill him.

The reality, right now, is the dim library vault, the cool stillness of the air. The whisper of the pages as Eris turns them, the tapping of Eriana's fingers as she scrolls through a holographic record.

Light thrums in Eriana's jaws, shimmers in the seams where her neck meets the metal plates of her chest, flickers in the joints of her fingers as she manipulates the display. Glowing letters stream through the air before her, too fast for human eyes to track.

Abruptly, the flow of letters ceases. Eris realizes she is staring—has been staring, slack-jawed, half-asleep, for far too long. In the wild, such a heedless daze would get her killed. 

And Eriana saw.

Eris drops her eyes to the page, cheeks heating. She hears Eriana rise and walk away, but she turns the page without looking up. She was nearly useless at the Mare Imbrium—a terrified, newly-raised Guardian fumbling with her knife. She will not be so again.

Line by line, word by word, Eris hunts Crota with grim concentration, though her eyes burn with weariness.

A hand touches her shoulder. She starts, and sees Eriana standing over her. Smells the mug of coffee in Eriana's hand.

Eris takes the mug wordlessly, a little humbled, a little grateful. She gulps a huge mouthful and nearly coughs it out again, because the hot liquid is nearly half vodka.

"Wei Ning said it was best this way," says Eriana, sleepless eyes bright, and for once, her voice doesn't hum with sorrow as she says the name.

For once, Eris feels like she could have been worthy to know Wei Ning.

"What have you found?" asks Eriana.

Eris curls her fingers around the warm mug, warmth building in her chest, and begins to talk.


End file.
